


One Year, Three Years, and a Day

by leopion



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, Friendship, Psychological Trauma, Romance, Series 1 Spoilers, Series 2 spoilers, Teenlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-22
Updated: 2013-01-22
Packaged: 2017-11-26 10:13:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/649475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leopion/pseuds/leopion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One year, three years, and a day with many years and months in between. The time it takes for her to melt away the ice around his heart. </p><p>Very early Teen!lock and beyond.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Year, Three Years, and a Day

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nicolebrander](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nicolebrander/gifts).



> Written as a birthday present for peetaholmes on Tumblr. Loosely based on the song _All Too Well_ by Taylor Swift, especially the following lyrics:  
>  _‘Cause there we are again, in the middle of the night_  
>  _We’re dancing around the kitchen in the refrigerator light_  
>  Originally posted on Tumblr. Now revised and reposted. Beta'ed by the amazing [broomclosetkink](http://archiveofourown.org/users/broomclosetkink).

**One year…**

It started in late February, this little pattern that Molly shared with the strange boy next door. She supposed that was when he and his mother had moved in. She hadn’t realised exactly where he lived until her parents mentioned their new neighbour over the dinner table. By then, she had gotten used to seeing his bouncy black curls and his tall frame every morning on her way to school. She had only caught glimpses of his face, though, angular and just... different.

Every day he would go past her as she was walking along the edge of Chase Green Gardens, and then he would soon disappear at the turn. Molly was curious about him, but she knew that it was pointless to try and catch up. He always walked much faster than her, and she was sure that he left home for school later than her, too. Yet, he gave no impression of being hurried.

It was funny that although their houses even shared a wall, she had never seen him at home. Maybe the only way she could actually meet him was to stay back and wait for him in the morning instead of getting to school early. It took another week after the Discovery—as Molly had come to name the day she’d found out he was her neighbour—for her to work up the courage. She hung back in front of her house one Monday, fidgeting with the hem of her school jumper and wondering how she should greet the boy with the curls. That was when an unfamiliar voice startled her.

‘You’re going to be late for school.’

It was him, no doubt. Molly was somewhat relieved that when she looked up, he was fastening the gate rather than focussing his attention on her.

‘Oh, um…’ she hesitated, ‘hello to you, too!’

‘I didn’t say hello,’ he said, looking over at her. But then he turned and walked away before she could think of a proper response. In that brief moment, Molly could swear that she had never seen eyes so blue.

That day, Molly still walked to school at her normal pace because, of course, she wasn’t going to run after him, even if it meant she really ended up arriving late.

*

It was very rude of him to shoot down her greetings and leave just like that, Molly decided. She hadn’t even had a chance to introduce herself properly, and she was determined to wait again the next day to finish what she’d started.

She paid close attention to his front door and deliberately came up to him this time. ‘Hi, I’m Molly!’

Her neighbour groaned. ‘It’s you again. Normally, you would have left for school ten minutes ago. I would advise you to revert back to that habit.’

He made to leave then, with Molly scuttling along. ‘How did you know when I usually go to school?’

‘I worked it out from our relative speeds and from the distance between here and the spot where we usually meet on the way. Elementary, really.’

‘That’s amazing,’ she blurted, still struggling to keep up. ‘But... really?’

The boy came to an abrupt halt, which almost made a running Molly collide with his back. He turned around and raised a critical eyebrow at her.

‘I thought you didn’t even notice me,’ she mumbled.

‘I always notice things,’ he said rather indignantly.

‘Okay.’

Again, he didn’t wait for her. Only when she could no longer see him ahead of her did Molly realise that she had forgotten to ask his name.

*

On Wednesday, Molly had to abandon her plan of getting acquainted with her new neighbour—not because she didn’t want to, but because she couldn’t go to school late again the third time in a row. She looked on almost wistfully as he walked past without acknowledging her at all. Her mind was still going over their little conversation yesterday. He was definitely very different from all the boys she had met, which made her want to get to know him all the more.

Molly was quite surprised that on Thursday he was already at the gate when she got out of her house—so surprised that she stopped in her tracks and stared openly at him.

‘Well, don’t you have to go to school now?’ he asked.

‘Uh, y-yes.’

‘Then let’s go.’

Molly nodded shyly, though on the inside she was dancing. _He waited for me!_

They walked together; he even shortened his strides for Molly to keep up. She wanted to say something but figured that she would just muck it up with her nervousness.

‘You can call me Sherlock, by the way,’ he said out of the blue.

‘Oh.’ It took her a moment to process that Sherlock was his name. A weird name as well, huh. She didn’t comment on it, though. Instead she turned to him and smiled. ‘It’s really nice to meet you, Sherlock.’

They had to split up eventually at the other garden across from Chase Green—Molly didn’t think it had a name. Even though their schools were near to each other, the entrances were quite far apart. Sherlock continued on to the boys’ grammar while Molly went up to her school on Holly Walk with a skip in her step.

*

Days turned into weeks. Now they not only walked to school together, but also joined up on their way home. As it turned out, being friends with Sherlock meant that Molly had to assist in a lot of his experiments. Sometimes they would go straight home, but more often than not, Sherlock would want to collect some samples on the way.

Today, when Molly came to their usual ‘waiting bench’ in the garden, she could see that Sherlock had discarded his bag on the ground in favour of something else he was holding in his gloved hands. He practically beamed when he spotted her. It must be something very interesting, then. As she got close enough to see, though, Molly had to take a step back. It was a bunting, very real and very dead.

‘Did you kill it?’ she squeaked.

‘Don’t be silly,’ said Sherlock. ‘It was like this when I found it.’

Molly relaxed visibly and sat down next to her friend. ‘That’s, uhm, that’s good then.’

‘You’re not afraid of dead animals, are you?’ asked Sherlock. He seemed to be scrutinising the bird very carefully now.

‘Not really,’ replied Molly, moving closer to join in the inspection. ‘Also, I’d best start to get used to it, I guess, since I’m gonna be a pathologist.’

Sherlock looked up sharply. ‘Do you even know what that means?’

‘Of course I do. When Marmy died, I said that when I grew up, I wanted to study why people and things died. Because then I would be able to save lots of other people and animals from dying, you know. Mum didn’t like it, and Dad told her it was just a phase. But when Mum wasn’t listening, Dad told me that I would grow up to be an excellent path—’

‘Is that all, Molly?’ Sherlock interrupted impatiently. ‘We do have a bunting to dissect.’

‘Oh, and Marmy was—’

‘Your cat. Marmy’s short for Marmalade. Anyway, we need to get home as soon as possible.’

With that, Sherlock stood and marched away with his new specimen. Molly grabbed both of their school bags and ran after him. Sherlock usually slowed down for her, but when he was really excited about something, he tended to forget about everything else, like the fact that her legs were much shorter than his.

They arrived back at Sherlock’s house with Molly practically panting for breath. He finally noticed it then and cast her an apologetic look.

‘You should stay here and rest while I set up our dissection table,’ he told her as he put the dead bunting down on the kitchen table. By then, he had insisted so many times that his mother wouldn’t mind their use of the kitchen that Molly didn’t even bother to ask if it was okay, even though today’s specimen seemed a bit more... adventurous. She had also stopped asking why his mother was home so rarely, because Sherlock would always answer that she was out looking for work but he never said more.

Molly settled down on one of the chairs and waited for Sherlock to take out his tools.

‘So, what do you wanna do when you grow up?’

'I’m not entirely sure yet,’ he said seriously. ‘I wanted to be a pirate, but I have recently decided against it.'

‘Why?'

'Because I have discovered that modern day pirates do not utilise the weapons that I thought they did.’ Sherlock’s nose scrunched up a bit, and Molly knew it was not out of disgust at the dead bird he was handling. ‘It makes it a lot less cool.’

She couldn’t suppress a giggle. ‘You can always be a special modern pirate and use the weapons you want.’

He snorted. ‘To be slaughtered by machine guns while I whirl my sword. I rather think not.’

*

Although Sherlock dragged her into many adventures in the weirdest of places, it was a rarity for him to follow Molly to where she wanted to go. She suspected that he’d only agreed to see the swimming cup with her because they wouldn’t get to see each other for a month when Molly’s family went away for the summer holidays.

They caught the bus to Atwill-Porter Baths together. Molly stayed with her school friends for the whole of the girl’s competition to cheer for her classmates. Meanwhile, Sherlock sat alone on the top bench. His school also had some contestants and quite a large group of supporters coming, but he didn’t pay them any mind.

Molly came up to join Sherlock when the boy’s competition started. She didn’t ask why he was not rooting for his classmates because she knew he would snort and say that he did not associate with morons. Somehow Molly always felt like she was fishing for compliments with that question, as Sherlock’s answer was the closest to him saying that she was smart enough to be his friend. She felt very proud of it, nonetheless.

Watching the race with Sherlock was definitely a different type of fun than with Molly’s other friends. She got to hear his running commentary of the whole thing: one swimmer could have improved his performance by doing this, another could have been benefited by doing that, or a particular move was redundant and stupid. Molly had never thought that there could be so much strategy in swimming. She couldn’t help but smile at the fact that Sherlock seemed even more absorbed in the game than the most enthusiastic fans.

Her smile died as Sherlock’s voice, which had been only loud enough for her to hear, turned into shouts. Something about how peculiar the movements of the boy in lane 3 were and how it could be an emergency. Before Molly could grasp what was happening, Sherlock had rushed down towards the pool. She redirected her attention to the race and found out why. One of the boys was having a fit in the water, and soon the lifeguards went in to bring him out. The paramedics came as well, but it was already too late.

A sombre air pervaded the hall, though it took only moments for Molly to be seized by another worry. Sherlock had disappeared. She tried to look around for him, but even from her high vantage point, it was in vain. When the police finally arrived and people were directed to exit the hall, he was still nowhere to be seen. Eventually, everyone else had left, but Molly lingered by the pool to wait for Sherlock.

‘You need to go with everyone else, sweetie,’ one of the security guards came over and said to her. Molly couldn’t hold back the tears then. She told him between sobs that her friend was still here, that they went to see the cup together, and that she couldn’t leave without him. In the end, the nice man agreed to let her stay for another half hour as long as she promised to keep far away from the water.

The longer she waited, the more Molly began to worry that Sherlock might have left without her, but at last, he appeared at the door to the locker room with a scowl on his face.

Molly immediately rushed to him. ‘Sherlock, where have you been? Are you okay?’

He didn’t answer but simply took Molly’s hand and led her out of the centre. He did not talk to her during their bus ride home either. Molly wanted to ask what happened, but she knew it was a very bad idea when Sherlock was upset. Maybe he was already angry with her for crying.

‘I didn’t mean to leave you behind like that,’ Sherlock finally spoke when they were on their way home from the bus stop.

‘So, you’re not angry with me then?’ asked Molly tentatively.

‘Of course not.’ He gave a small smile to reassure her. ‘It’s just that the police did not listen to my theory, and it’s frustrating. The boy who died—Carl Powers. All of his things are still in the locker, but the shoes are missing. They couldn’t have vanished on their own. Someone else must’ve had a hand in it.’

‘You mean someone tried to kill him?’

‘And succeeded,’ said Sherlock gravely. ‘But the police refused to listen.’

‘They should have,’ she said, to which he merely nodded.

‘I will be a detective,’ he declared after a moment of silence. Then, he turned to her. ‘Molly, would you like to be my assistant?’

Molly’s eyes widened. ‘You think I’ll be able to?’

‘Of course you will.’ He grinned that boyish grin of his that made her heart melt. ‘You’re going to be a pathologist. We’re going to solve murders together. It’s practically perfect.’

*

Molly was thoroughly excited when autumn rolled around; partly because she could resume her routine with Sherlock, partly because she was not a wee first form anymore. Sherlock said that moving up a class was merely a change in numbers to him, but he seemed happier these days too. He almost never opposed Molly’s ideas of doing silly fun things now—like today, when she ran around the garden with colourful leaves dancing around her and the wind playing with her long hair. Molly was laughing as the wayward locks of hair tickle her face, and though Sherlock didn’t run with her, he joined her in the laughter.

Sherlock was beaming as Molly dashed back to him. His eyes were smiling too, and she could see in them many golden flecks, as beautiful as the leaves of autumn. She always loved it when he smiled.

He often became serious again when they got back to their experiments, of course. This time was no different. They were going to study the decomposition of leaves in various conditions. Sherlock was adamant that Molly could not pick the better-looking leaves for drying because it would ruin the randomness of the treatment assignment, or whatever that was.

They both came home with armfuls of leaves preserved in plastic bags. As they dumped their collection onto the kitchen table, Sherlock frowned at her. ‘Your hair looks like a mess.’

It was the result of Molly’s wild run earlier, and she could see why he was bothered by it. Despite the adventures they had, Sherlock had always kept his appearance impeccable. ‘I can go home to fix it up and then come back if you want.’

‘That would take too long. You can use Mummy’s combs instead.’

‘Is it all—’

‘It’s fine.’

They both went upstairs to his mother’s room, which was beautifully decorated with landscape pictures and creamy curtains. There wasn’t so much as a wrinkle on the bed linen, and Molly felt almost regretful when Sherlock flopped onto it and ruined the perfection. She sat down on the stool in front of the vanity table. Among the delicate accessories and cosmetics, she spotted a small, ornate picture frame. It contained a photo of Sherlock and his parents, she realised, but only Mrs Vernet was smiling.

Molly picked out a small hairbrush, careful not to disturb any other items. She quickly fixed her skewed side-part, combed through the rest of her hair, and pulled it into a neat ponytail. She knew she should just get up and go downstairs to their experiment, but she couldn’t tear her eyes from the photo on the table. ‘Do you get to see your dad often?’

‘He doesn’t know where we are. Not yet, anyway.’

‘Why?’ Molly turned around on her stool. ‘Your mum doesn’t want him to come?’

Sherlock shrugged. ‘She practically ran away from him. Wants to prove to him that she doesn’t need him. Not doing a very good job at it, if you ask me. She’s used up her inheritance buying this house, and she hasn’t been able to keep any job more than a month.’

‘You shouldn’t talk about your mum like that.’

‘Those are facts. Mummy’s too used to being waited on hand and foot to survive on her own. She’ll have to go back to Father sooner or later.’

‘And yet she still brought you with her?’

‘I stupidly requested to go with her.’

Molly shifted uncomfortably in the silence that followed. Sherlock didn’t urge her to hurry and get back to work, which felt really odd. She took a deep breath and said at last, ‘I think that’s sweet though.’

‘What is?’

‘You wanting to go with your mother to look after her.’

‘I am _not_ sweet.’ He practically spat out the last word. ‘And I only wanted to get away from Mycroft.’

‘Who’s Mycroft?’

‘My older brother. And before you ask, he was at boarding school when we took the photo. You’re asking too many questions, Molly.’

‘Um, just one more, please, Sherlock?’

Sherlock’s gaze turned into a glare, and Molly did not dare ask what she’d initially wanted to: _If you and your mum have to go back to wherever your dad is, then will we still be friends?_

‘Can I put the pretty leaf earlier into the fourth category?’ she said instead.

His eyes softened, and he gave a long, suffering sigh. ‘All right.’

*

On Molly’s twelfth birthday, she left school happily with a small bag of presents from her friends, those who would not be able to make it to her little party that evening. Her spirit was dampened somewhat when she remembered that Sherlock had also said that he wouldn’t come.

‘Come on, we’re going to Costa,’ Sherlock greeted as she got to their meeting place.

‘You mean the one in Palace Gardens? But it’s the opposite of our way home. I need to go home and prepare for the party.’

‘We can take the bus back. If you don’t want to be late, then hurry up.’

In the end, Molly couldn’t resist Sherlock. They did not go all the way to the shopping centre, though. Instead they stopped at another shop. It was technically a sandwich bar, but they served coffee as well.

Without having to consult Molly, Sherlock ordered her a hot chocolate. He himself got a black coffee with two sugars. They settled down at a small table that looked out towards the street.

‘You know I like hot chocolate?’ asked Molly. ‘Have I ever sported a chocolate moustache or something?’

Sherlock scoffed. ‘The kitchen cupboard at your house. Tea, coffee, and the lot are all on the top shelf, but chocolate powder is on the lower shelf along with _pickles_. Your mum is a bit of a neat-freak, so the only reason she could have allowed it is for you to be able to reach the thing.’

‘I knew it would be something clever like that.’ She smiled and sipped at her hot chocolate. ‘When is your birthday, by the way?’

‘Doesn’t matter. I never see any merits in celebrating it, anyhow.’

‘But you still buy me hot chocolate on my birthday.’

‘Because for some reason I can’t fathom, you think birthdays are important.’

‘They are,’ said Molly brightly. Sherlock gave her the look that he would normally direct at a challenging puzzle, but she ignored it.

She leaned over the table and pecked him on the cheek. ‘Thank you.’

‘You’re welcome,’ he replied before turning away and starting to deduce other people in the shop. As always, Molly listened and occasionally asked him questions, but all the while she was left to wonder if she’d imagined the slight tint of pink on Sherlock’s cheeks.

*

Sherlock told her he had to go to his Grandma’s on the 30th of December, but that he would be back in the evening. Molly asked why he wouldn’t stay there longer. If she went to her Nana that close to the new year, she would have stayed until New Year’s Day. Sherlock merely snorted and said that he threatened not to come at all if it was more than a day. Molly knew why he needed to go on that exact date, though she didn’t tell him yet. It was going to be a surprise.

On the day, Molly sat by the living room window all evening to look out at the street, waiting for Sherlock to come back. Soon it was time for bed, so she reluctantly followed her mother upstairs.

Molly was woken up in the middle of the night by someone poking at her side. She opened her bleary eyes to see Sherlock standing next to her bed.

'Sherlock, what are you doing here? If Mum and Dad know—'

'We’ll be careful. Come down to the kitchen,' he said. 'I have an experiment with which I'll need your assistance.'

'At this hour?' Her voice rose involuntarily.

He put up a finger to hush her. ‘It cannot wait.’

They tiptoed their way downstairs, Sherlock holding up a mini electric torch to light the path. The kitchen was completely dark, except for their little light, and there on the kitchen counter, a big grasshopper lay motionless. How Sherlock could find it in this snowy weather, Molly didn’t bother to ask.

She tried her best to keep her voice down. ‘This is _my mum’s_ kitchen counter, Sherlock. She will have a heart attack if she sees this.’

‘We’ll clean it up afterwards. Now I need you to hold this torch for me to study the joints. They are quite fascinating.’

Molly grimaced but followed his request nonetheless. Sherlock used a magnifying glass to examine the insect. He kept complaining that the light was too weak, but whenever Molly tried to place it closer, she always ended up getting in his way. They clearly couldn't turn on the kitchen light because her mum and dad might see it from the corridor upstairs.

‘We’ll use the light from the fridge,’ said Sherlock with a huff.

Despite Molly’s protest, in the end, they were crouching in front of the open fridge in order to utilise both sources of light. After a while, Sherlock put the grasshopper into a plastic bag and got up.

‘Thank you for your assistance, Molly.’

That was when she remembered about the surprise she had prepared for him. She rushed out to the living room—completely forgetting to keep a light footstep—and then brought in a box carefully wrapped in blue paper and tied with a dark blue bow.

‘Happy birthday, Sherlock!’

‘I never told you my birthday.’

‘You’re not the only one who can investigate, you know,’ said Molly.

‘Fair enough.’ Sherlock smiled at her and opened the present.

Molly couldn’t suppress a grin at the look on his face when he took out the blue scarf and wrapped it around his neck. Sherlock breathed in deeply. ‘You spent a lot of time folding and unfolding this, didn’t you?’

She blushed. ‘Um, it took me a while to fold it right. I just wanted it to be perfect.’

‘It is,’ he murmured. ‘It smells like you.’

Butterflies were fluttering in her stomach as he leaned his face closer to her cheek.

‘Molly, I...’ He paused then suddenly straightened up. ‘I have to go.’

He left her standing there baffled at what had just transpired.

*

If there was one time when Molly hated Sherlock’s astuteness, it was when he knew exactly how to avoid her. He could deduce her routine, and he could deduce how she would try to find him, too. She waited for him, but he didn’t show. She went to his house, but the gate was locked and no one answered her call.

Molly didn’t know what she had done wrong on his birthday, but she would still apologise if only she could see him. At last, she resorted to sticking a note on his front gate despite the risk of his mother being the one who found it first.

_Dear Sherlock,_

_I’m really sorry. Stop avoiding me, please._

_Love,_

_Molly_

He was very quick to reply, and the response made Molly cry.

_I think we should not continue our association. –SH_

Molly stopped waiting for him, but she still hoped that he would change his mind. However, one day in January, when she came home from school, a ‘For Sale’ sign had appeared in front of his house, and she knew he was not coming back.

~~~~~~~

**Three years…**

He waltzed back into her life on the 12th of August, 2007. She didn’t know why she’d taken notice of the exact date. There was nothing extraordinary about it. It wasn’t even her first day at work. At the time, she’d been working at St Bart’s for nearly two weeks and already settled in her own routine. Then again, his appearance alone was enough to turn everything upside down.

She hadn’t thought of him for a long time then. No matter what people said about first crush or first love or whatever it was, one simply did not have the time to reminisce while having to survive difficult qualification exams and then fighting for their dream job in one of the most prestigious hospitals in the country. Although said dream was first shared and nurtured with him, she had pushed all those memories into the deep recess of her mind. Perhaps that was where she had gone wrong. She had nothing to prepare herself for when the memories broke free from her restraint.

Molly had just finished her first autopsy of the day and was prepared to return the body to the cold storage when she heard the sound of footsteps and muffled conversation coming nearer. Her heart almost stopped at the familiar voice. It was deeper and colder than she remembered, but still distinctive. Through the opaque glass, she couldn’t see any of the approaching men clearly yet, but she found her eyes glued to the sliding door, waiting.

Sherlock was the first to enter her morgue, with purposeful strides and his dark, long coat billowing behind. It was truly him. Of course, he was no longer the boy she’d known eighteen years ago, but she could never mistake those curls, those cheekbones, and those eyes. And if there were ever any doubts, the scarf wound around his neck was the very birthday present that she’d bought for him.

His piercing blue eyes analysed her, as they would any other stranger, before glazing over in disinterest. There was no sign of recognition. Her heart sank, and she averted her gaze from his face, busying herself with the already-fastened zip of the body bag.

‘Good morning,’ she said—too brightly—to the room at large, when the other two men finally walked in.

Her boss, Dr Stamford, greeted her back warmly. ‘This is Detective Inspector Lestrade from the New Scotland Yard.’ The tall man with pepper-and-salt hair smiled at her. ‘This is Mr Sherlock Holmes. He usually assists the police on their cases.’

Dr Stamford then turned to introduce her. ‘And this is Dr Molly Hooper. As I’ve told you before, Dr Scott has retired, and from now on you will be working with Dr Hooper here.’

Hoping that her name might have evoked something, she stole a glance at him, but again, there was just that bored, indifferent look. Perhaps he didn’t remember her last name, and there were just too many Mollys out there. A little voice at the back of her mind refuted that he should have deduced enough facts about her to connect the dots by now.

Molly quickly shook herself out of her thoughts and exchanged polite greetings with DI Lestrade. She turned to Sherlock and put on her best smile. ‘Pleased to meet you, Mr Holmes.’

‘Dr Hooper, we’re here to see the body of a Mr William Kirwin.’

‘Please do not be offended,’ said DI Lestrade. ‘He’s like that with everyone.’

She simply nodded and proceeded to put away the body she’d just worked on. Sherlock hummed impatiently—just like old times—as it took her a while longer to find and wheel out Mr Kirwin. The results of her autopsy were very straightforward: he died due to a shot directly through the heart. Nevertheless, Sherlock insisted that she open up the bag for him to examine the body. He whipped out a pocket magnifying glass and began to inspect the corpse’s left hand.

No one said anything until the DI got a phone call and had to excuse himself from the room. For once, Molly was hopeful again. Maybe this was it. Maybe Sherlock didn’t want to bring up personal matters in front of other people. Now there were only the two of them in the room with a dead coachman. Nothing could stop him from acknowledging her, could it? He was wearing her scarf after all, so it was unlikely that he still wanted to deny his connection to her. He might have even tried to find her, come to think of it, and would have succeeded too if her parents hadn’t decided to move away.

On the contrary, the silence stretched on until Molly couldn’t bear it any longer.

‘Sherlock,’ she began, ‘it’s—’

‘Solved,’ he announced sharply before striding out without a backward glance.

*

He came back the next day to run some lab tests for another case, by which time she was settled on the supposition that he truly did not recognise her. The night before, she had decided that she would compliment on his scarf if he was to wear it again. She had constructed the scenarios in her head—the possible awkwardness when he would admit it was a present from an old friend, and she would say that she was said friend trying to ensure that she got the right person. She had imagined the best scenario too, where they would share a laugh at her miserable attempt at subtlety and it would seem like the rift had never existed at all.

None of that actually happened, even though he did wear the blue scarf again, and she did carry out her plan. He responded to her compliment with a noncommittal grunt that he’d found it in the closet, and although it might have belonged to his annoying brother at some point, it was a nice enough scarf.

The fact that he didn’t even remember where the scarf had come from hurt.

*

She spent the next year treading on thin ice, not being able to tell whether he’d changed his mind about continuing his friendship with the girl from his past. A part of her wanted him to realise who she was, to somehow resume what they’d had before. The other part was constantly fearful that once the truth got out, he would avoid her again.

They formed an acquaintance—close enough to be on a first name basis, close enough so that it seemed normal for him to ask her to run lab tests or make the occasional coffee. The coffee was a bit unwarranted, but it was something she’d brought on herself. He was in the lab one night while she was making herself coffee—not hot chocolate—and she wondered if his taste had changed too. So, she made another cup for him: black, two sugars. He didn’t thank her, but he didn’t complain either. He simply started asking for coffee the next time he came to her lab. Sometimes he reminded her of his coffee order; sometimes he didn’t. But he never asked why she’d known exactly how he took his coffee the first time around.

He showed up at St Bart’s more and more frequently, not only for murder cases and case-related tests but also for his own experiments. In a way, he was inadvertently fulfilling the promise from their childhood, and she was keeping her end too. She did the autopsies—as was her job—and gave him a hand with whatever tests or experiments he conducted. It was different from what she had imagined, though somehow their work now still took her back to those earlier days.

It started with her wanting to recover a friendship, but then she was falling for him again despite the multitude of reasons not to. He was crueller with his deductions now. He seemed much more self-centred and inconsiderate. He expected everyone to cater to his whim at a moment’s notice. The list could go on. In short, he was more of a jerk than he had ever been.

All the same, she had seen his heart underneath the layers of ice. She knew it was still there, and that was what did her in, not his looks, not his brilliant mind. If it had just been any of those, then she could have written it off as a crush or even as admiration, and moved on. She could see that the ice was thicker now. Her head warned that it was one more reason to stay away. Yet, her heart kept telling her that no one should be in that cold place alone.

*

She ceased watching her every move around him after she accidentally found out that he didn’t know who Shakespeare was. He explained to her that he only kept in his mind palace information which was essential to his work. He also kept certain memories because they helped build the foundation. Everything else was deleted so as not to cluster his limited memory space. It dawned on her then that she was among the deleted pile. The realisation was painful yet freeing in a way. No matter what she did, he would not remember their past.

It emboldened her enough to ask him out. He told her outright that he considered himself married to his work, so she stopped asking. He knew about her affection and used it to his advantage, but that was the extent of it.

She dated other men, both before and after his absolute rejection, but things never worked out. She was usually the one who ended it, either because the man turned out to be a douche or because although he was nice, they were not compatible with one another. She suspected that on some subconscious level, it was due to the fact that she hadn’t been able to let go entirely of her feelings for Sherlock.

And then there were the ones whom Sherlock himself had scared away with his brutal observations. He certainly made a habit of deducing to bits her boyfriends or dates whenever he had the chance to meet them. If she hadn’t known that he was equally horrid to everyone, she would have thought that he was being jealous.

Whatever the reason was, it still had something to do with him. Hence, she was resolved to pick herself up and try again. She decided to start out small, asking him to go have coffee. Despite the implication, she felt that without the dreaded word ‘date’ being spoken, it would seem easier to accept. They had gone out for coffee before, technically. Although the present Sherlock did not remember any of it, she knew that with certain things he still behaved in a similar way to the Sherlock of back then. In the end, he mistook her invitation as an offer to bring him his coffee. Or perhaps he just pretended in order to brush off her advance.

*

She couldn’t—and wouldn’t—wait around for him.

But there were still moments when he got her under his spell again. She knew he was only charming when he wanted something from her, yet her cheeks still flushed, her heart still fluttered, and she still couldn’t suppress a smile every time. She knew that he was telling the truth, even if it always took an ulterior motive for him to make an effort to notice.

There were still moments when an accidental reminder of their old memories made her question whether the rule of his memory deletion was absolute. She would wonder at the possibility that something still remained deep down in his mind, at the possibility that she could still bring it back.

Sometimes both types of moments combined, and her mind and heart would be left reeling.

*

She found out about Jim from the police: how he had tricked everyone at Barts, how he had used her to approach Sherlock, how he had created various bomb threats and had nearly blown up Sherlock and John. Greg consoled her that even without her, Jim from IT could have reached Sherlock easily, but guilt still ate away at her. She put on a brave smile and declined the police’s offer of protection, but that day after giving her statement, she immediately called the locksmith to have all her locks changed and reinforced. Her only comfort was that both her friends were all right.

Yet, it wasn’t until a few days later when she read John’s blog that the true gravity of the situation shook her to the core. Carl Powers’ murder—Jim had been the one behind it. He had been following Sherlock’s trace since then. Suddenly, the reason for Jim to approach her was not so simple any more. Did he know that she was the little girl who’d come with Sherlock that day? If Jim had been there, then he must have. She and Sherlock had technically been the last ones to leave the centre after all.

She was glad that in her stories about Sherlock, she had not once mentioned their childhood. It had felt like such private memories that there had never been a question of sharing. But who knew which way this could escalate? Who knew how else Jim was going to use her to harm Sherlock? She would never knowingly betray Sherlock, but she could not trust herself capable of outwitting Jim. That was something only Sherlock could accomplish.

She rushed out of her flat with a trench coat thrown over her pyjamas and took a cab to 221 Baker Street. She needed to warn Sherlock, whether she wanted the truth to come out or not. But then during the cab ride, another thought occurred to her. Jim was only interested in Sherlock, and if Sherlock did not remember her, it was as if those events had never happened at all. Maybe that was why she hadn’t been drawn into Jim’s bombing game. Bringing up the past now would only complicate matters and give Sherlock more things to worry about.

Her cab had come to its destination anyway, so she stepped out and stood at his door, the debate in her mind still raging on. Her hand was hovering over the knocker—hesitating—when the sound of music reached her. She looked up to the source and saw his silhouette at the window. She had never known that he played the violin. It struck her how much she didn’t know about him.

Sure, the past was still important and its impacts carried, but maybe she had been too obsessed with comparing, with making the connections that she had lost sight of the big picture in the present. She could not erase her memories like he did, and she would never stop cherishing them. Still, perhaps it was time for her to really start again in the here and now.

*

He had switched to another scarf, a longer one with stripes instead of plain blue. She told herself that it was probably due to some practical reasons. Maybe her scarf was too well-worn now; maybe he had lost it somewhere. The change didn’t mean anything, and she did not ask him about it. Yet, her mind kept going back to it again and again. Letting go of the past was easier said than done.

After working together for two and a half years, they were at a point where he could talk to her about things. He needed an outlet for his ever-racing mind, and John wasn’t always there. He talked, and she listened. To him it was just a routine, but to her those were moments to treasure. Even though she didn’t have a mind palace, she still reserved each little titbit of their one-sided conversations neatly in her mind. That was how she was getting to know him again, and sometimes it was his seemingly mundane concern about John or Mrs Hudson that confirmed she wasn’t wrong about his heart.

Every once in a while, she felt compelled to talk about herself, though she didn’t know why. It was a pointless exercise, really. He was certainly not interested in Toby’s eating habits, or the ideal first date in a romance she’d just read, or anything else she had to say besides work. She was pretty sure that he usually tuned her out, and when he couldn’t, he would just tell her to stop.

*

She bought him a book about beekeeping. It was a topic that he never talked about at length but would mention in passing every now and then, sort of like a pastime that one always wanted to pursue but never got the time to start. That was why she’d once looked up beekeeping and made a list of classic titles on the subject. She couldn’t afford the time and money to hunt those books down, but she always kept the list in her purse—and after a while, her mind—whenever she went to old bookstores, just in case. Luck smiled at her eventually as she found a copy of _The Bee-Keepers’ Guide; or Manual of the Apiary_ written in 1876 by one of the pioneers, Albert John Cook. The book she found wasn’t a copy of the elusive first edition, but it was still quite old with a beautiful vintage look to it. Best of all, it had been kept in a fairly good condition.

However, she was at a lost as to how to bring the gift to him. She didn’t know how he would react if she just showed up with it on a random day, and yet she could find no special occasion for it. She still remembered his birthday, of course, but in his mind she shouldn’t have had that information. If her finding it out had seemed sweet twenty years ago, she felt as though it would make her look like a creepy stalker now.

Therefore, she was glad that John invited her over for the Christmas party. It would be her chance. She wrapped the book up carefully and forced herself not to think too much before writing the gift tag. If she did, she knew she would never be happy enough with the message to put down anything at all.

She dressed up on the night—wishing that for once, even without the need for cadavers or body parts, he would still notice. And he did—only in a very different way than she had hoped. He could be so clever and yet so blind sometimes.

The lump in her throat thickened with each of his deductions, but when she heard his sharp intake of breath as he finally realised whom the gift was for, she knew she had to speak up. It would be the one time when he would listen to her fully and not cast it off as mindless chatters.

‘You always say such horrible things. Every time. Always. Always.’

She knew her voice was quivering, and the last few words came out no louder than mere whispers. But they were enough. Then he did something that he had never done before, even in their distant past. He apologised to her and placed a kiss on her cheek. She barely had time to process it before an erotic moan pierced the silence. She was first mortified, then confused at his unusual admission, and finally worried at his tone as he found another present on the mantelpiece. His voice was void of emotions, which more often than not meant that something bad had happened. She couldn’t shake the look on his face as he brushed off John’s question and retreated to his room. She had no right to follow him, so she found herself instinctively raising her wine glass and taking a sip to calm down her own nerves.

She was called in to the morgue soon afterwards, to prepare a body for Sherlock to identify. The woman on her slab was probably someone he cared about, she realised. Her suspicion was substantiated by the far-off look in his eyes as he entered. He confirmed the corpse’s identity not by her face, and Molly hated herself for asking Mycroft why that was the case. She hated the pang of jealousy that snaked into her heart.

*

He was shutting people out again. He was wearing a mask even with John. Or perhaps it was especially with John. Because John was someone he cared about and wanted to protect. Molly could see him, though, and it terrified her how much his behaviour reminded her of her dad after he was diagnosed with stage IV liver cancer.

That was when she decided that she could not stay invisible anymore. She needed to make him realise that she would always be there for him. He shot down her attempt at conversation, as always. But this time she knew she had to soldier on, even as his scrutinising gaze fixed on her.

‘I don’t count.’ The words spilling out of her mouth were still painful even though she had admitted that fact to herself a long time ago. All the same, the important thing was that she would get her point across. ‘What I’m trying to say is, if there’s anything I can do—anything you need, anything at all—you can have me. No, I just mean. I mean, if there’s anything you need, it’s fine.’

‘What could I need from you?’ he asked, surprise evident in his voice for the second time that day. She didn’t know, really, but she hadn’t a doubt that she was willing to give everything she’d got.

*

He came to her in the darkness of St Bart’s lab. He told her that she counted, his words soft but clear against the otherwise-complete silence. Her heart soared, yet a small part of her couldn’t help but wonder what he meant by ‘always’. _Always, since we were children_ , or _Always, since I worked with you at Barts_.

It didn’t matter, though. What mattered was the slight tremor in his voice, the sadness in his eyes as he turned to face her.

‘I’m not okay.’ His confession didn’t surprise her, but she still shivered at the realness of hearing him say it.

‘Tell me what’s wrong.’ She was glad that her voice did not waver.

‘Molly,’ he rose to his full height and walked towards her, ‘I think I’m going to die.’

She felt her heart break, but she knew he was not saying goodbye. He was here because she had offered to help him with anything he needed. She willed herself to stay calm. The strain caused her tone to be somewhat more forceful than she had intended. ‘What do you need?’

He did not answer her question, and his voice cracked when he uttered the next words. ‘If I wasn’t everything that you think I am, everything that I think I am, would you still want to help me?’

She didn’t hesitate for even a second before repeating her question. Her voice was softer, more soothing this time. She trusted him to understand that there was never any doubt on her part, just the fact that it pained her to see him doubt himself.

He moved even closer, so close that she had to tilt her head up to meet his eyes.

‘You.’

One single word paralysed her. She did not know how to react, did not know how to think of it. Their eyes were still riveted to one another’s, and for a moment, it seemed as though he wanted to say something else. But then he broke the gaze.

‘I need your help to fake my death,’ he said, in his usual controlled tone. She knew it wasn’t what he’d initially wanted to say. Their moment was lost.

*

He hadn’t uttered a word since he’d waken up in her morgue, so she’d become the one who did the talking. As she cleaned him up and checked his wounds, she told him what she was going to do every step of the way. She knew how much he disliked physical contact, though it was unavoidable given their situation.

Nevertheless, she wanted to give him a fair warning before commencing anything, be it rinsing the blood from his hair or resetting his ankle. There were certain things with which she could give some leeway—either leaving them be or letting him deal with them himself, so she asked what he would prefer. He occasionally nodded in answer, but most of the time, she had to take his lack of response as consent for her to take care of the matter.

Those were the obvious reasons, but mainly she talked to fill the cold, grey void that St Bart’s morgue had become. As strangely morbid as it seemed, she had always felt at home here, and she suspected that he’d felt that way too. But not tonight.

They were both silent throughout the cab ride to her flat, since Sherlock needed to travel incognito. Although he still kept his old shirt, which had been shielded from the blood by his scarf and coat, she had given him a leather jacket and tucked most of his distinctive curls beneath a cloth cap. He looked a lot different in the disguise, but she wondered whether it had more to do with the fact that she had never seen him so completely devastated. Her chest tightened at the very thought.

She guided him up to her flat, holding his hand so that she could swiftly come to his aid if he lost his footing. His left ankle was still weak, and she would have preferred putting her arm around his back to give him proper support. However, it was the only time when he shook his head in response to her question, so she did not argue. Despite the warm late-spring weather, his hand was cold as ice, and she had to resist the urge to squeeze it, to share with him a bit of her warmth.

‘So, this is where I live,’ she announced after unlocking the front door with her free hand. She pointed out the kitchen, the bathroom, her bedroom, and the spare bedroom that she was going to prepare for him. She told him to make himself at home. She knew he could deduce all the things she said and more anyway, but she just kept going. The wound was still too raw for her to approach the more serious topics, and she felt that the silence would eat them both alive.

She led him to the couch, their hands still loosely joining. After he’d settled down, she made to leave for the kitchen. ‘I’m just going to put the kettle on, then I’ll run a bath if you want to—’

His hand tightened around hers in an almost painful grip. ‘Stay.’

She sat down next to him on the couch, not meeting his eyes, afraid that she wouldn’t be able to hold back tears. She needed to stay strong for him. She was surprised as he put his head on her lap. For a moment, she thought he was letting go of her hand, but then he laced his fingers with hers and brought their entwined hands up to rest on his chest.

‘You should get some sleep,’ she said gently, her free hand tentatively stroking his still-damp hair. He didn’t protest but merely closed his eyes and moved closer.

He slept fitfully, murmuring John’s name in his slumber. It was heartbreaking to watch, yet a glimmer of hope prevailed in her heart. He was here, he was still alive, and together they would be able to pick up the pieces.

Before long, the strain of the day also took its toll on her, and she fell asleep next to him on the couch. She woke up the next morning to find him gone. Once again, he had left without a goodbye.

~~~~~~~

**And a day…**

She knew better than to try and look for him. After all, it would only be a futile effort if he didn’t want to be found. Still, she meticulously watched the news and combed through the papers for reports on the deaths of gang members or notorious criminals. Sometimes she also contented herself with hearing news about anonymous tips that helped the police track down certain drug rings. She never dug deeper to make sure it was truly the work of Sherlock, for fear that she would raise suspicions and endanger him. Nevertheless, the news was able to reassure her somewhat.

Her nightmares started in late October, roughly a month after the last trace of him—a known sniper had been found dead in Newcastle, apparently having committed suicide due to substantial gambling debts. After that, there was nothing to confirm to her that Sherlock was still alive. No matter how many times she convinced herself that he might have followed a lead abroad, her mind kept going back to the worst scenario. She could not block it out, so she tried to get used to waking up in the middle of the night with tears on her face and her hands feeling as though they were still drenched in the blood from his fall. That was why she stacked her fridge with chocolate and used it as her comfort food. She sometimes smiled at the thought of how he would have plenty to remark on her weight when he came back, but her smile always soured quickly as a more realistic part of her brain reminded her to use ‘if’, not ‘when’.

There were also some nights, like tonight, when she could not even bring herself to sleep, let alone have bad dreams. She made the familiar trek to the kitchen without having to turn on the lights and took out her favourite white Toblerone.

‘Did you buy me a present?’

She jolted at his voice, the chocolate bar slipping from her hand onto the floor. She wheeled around to face him. ‘You nearly gave me a heart attack, Sherlock.’

She had thought that at a moment like this, she would have rushed towards him. Yet she didn’t. She was tired of him taking off as soon as they shared the slightest resemblance of intimacy. She was afraid that he would isolate himself and carry the burden on his own again.

‘Did you?’ he asked once more. His face was still hidden in the dark, but she could practically feel his eyes trained on her. He kept his hands in the pockets of his coat, the outline of his shoulders tensed, but he didn’t appear to be in any physical pains. His cryptic question alarmed her, though. Sometimes invisible wounds were much harder to heal.

She didn’t know how to reply to him either. Surely, he didn’t show up expecting a Christmas present from her at this time, did he? She hadn’t forgotten what today was, of course, but… No, it wasn’t possible.

‘Let me just go and turn the light on,’ she said in lieu of an answer. She needed to really see him. She was no expert on reading his expression, but at least it would give her some clues to start with.

She moved to close the fridge, but he came up behind her and put his hands on either sides of the door, effectively trapping her. ‘Just leave it open,’ he said.

‘What is wrong, Sherlock?’ she asked, willing her voice not to falter at their proximity. ‘You’re acting very weird, and it’s scaring me.’

‘Twenty-one years ago,’ he began quietly, ‘there was a boy who sneaked into his best friend’s house in the middle of the night and asked her to help with his experiment, because… he didn’t want to be alone on his birthday…’ He trailed off. She couldn’t tell whether it was because of the surge of emotions or because he knew that she would realise how the story went.

She didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry. What came out was an ugly choking sound. ‘All this time, you remembered?’

When he did not answer, she turned around and gazed up at him. Their eyes locked, and she could see the mist glistening in his. He nodded slowly.

‘Why now?’ she breathed. _Why not when we first met again at St Bart’s? Why not when the Carl Powers case came back to haunt you? Why not when you said you needed me?_

She did not have to voice any of that, though. He knew. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. ‘I was scared.’

‘And now?’

‘You’re my only link to the world. Just like back then.’ He sighed, looking back into her eyes at last. ‘During these past months, I have realised that if I keep running away, I’ll be going through that time again, I’ll be losing the one thing that is real.’

Her tears flowed unbidden then. ‘You’ve never lost me, Sherlock. And you never will.’

She wrapped her arms around his waist and buried her face into his chest. He stiffened momentarily before relaxing in her embrace. His arms gradually came up to rest on her shoulders, one of his hands threading through her tousled hair. He was swaying them both lightly from side to side in soothing motions, and she truly appreciated the gesture. He didn’t stop even when she was no longer crying—she was sure that he’d noticed—and she started to realise that there was a certain rhythm to his movements.

‘What are we doing, Sherlock?’ she asked. ‘Not that it isn’t nice and all, but…’

He bowed his head and whispered in her ear. ‘Someone once told me that she expected there to be dancing on the ideal first date.’

She chuckled softly. He had been listening to her all those times in the lab after all. ‘Without any music?’

‘Is it obligatory?’

‘No,’ she murmured, snuggling closer to him. ‘As long as it’s you, we can spend our first date cutting up cadavers for all I care.’

‘Don’t make jokes, Molly.’ There was no irritation in his voice, which made it feel almost surreal.

‘Happy birthday, Sherlock!’ She tilted her head up and stood on tiptoes to kiss him softly on the lips. It took him a moment to respond, with just as much tenderness. He didn’t deepen the kiss, and neither did she. There would be time for all of that later. Right now, they were making up for lost time, doing what they should have done many years ago.

There they danced, in the pale, cool light from the refrigerator, to the synchronising beats of their own hearts.


End file.
